


Always Come Back

by Sholio



Category: White Collar
Genre: Banter, Bonding, Episode Related, F/M, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:21:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place several months after 3x16 - FINALE SPOILERS. Peter h/c (pretty hardcore Peter h/c, compared to what I normally write); Peter + Neal friendship. Anything else I could say would be spoilery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Come Back

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Always Come Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/356194) by [aqwt101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqwt101/pseuds/aqwt101)



It's been eight months.

For some reason that's what Peter finds himself thinking as he slides down the brick wall, the taste of copper in his mouth, his gun falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. Eight months since he saw Neal for the last time. He doesn't know why he's thinking of that now, because certainly Neal has nothing in common with their fleeing bank robber. Neal isn't violent. Neal would never shoot someone. Neal would never, ever shoot _Peter_.

He's not thinking that it wouldn't have happened if Neal was here, because that's completely unfair to his team. He probably would have made Neal wait in the car anyway. Neal doesn't -- didn't carry a gun. And this guy was armed, and it was Peter's own decision to chase after him, outdistancing Diana as she stopped to call for backup ...

Diana, whose face is in his field of vision now, twisted with anger or something else. She's saying something, but he can't hear her. She makes him lie down, or maybe he falls, because now he's looking up at the sky. Diana touches his chest and the sky whites out. It's not pain. There are no words for what it is.

"I'm sorry," Diana says, "sorry, _damn it_ , what were you thinking ..." He can tell she's doing things to his chest, and some of them hurt, but he just lets her. That's something he needs to work on: letting go. He's never been good at it. Maybe he'll practice now. Elizabeth would be proud of him.

Elizabeth ...

"Damn it, Peter, _don't_ \--" Diana says, but he doesn't hear what else she says, because his mouth is full of blood and he lets go and falls into the sky.

Flying away. Like Neal.

 

***

 

In and out. Light and dark. There's pressure like an elephant sitting on his chest -- almost pain, but not quite, a physical presence filling his world. And maybe it's the same time, or another time, but there's also Elizabeth, holding his hand and crying. He wants to know who made her cry so he can make them sorry, but before he can figure it out, he's gone again.

 

***

 

It seems as if every time he falls asleep, people keep waking him up to poke and prod him, or make him take deep breaths, or give him drinks of something that doesn't really want to stay down. It's all floaty and disconnected, strung together into a series of disjointed impressions, most of them unpleasant. Elizabeth is there a lot, the one good solid thing in the spinning, confusing world. Elizabeth says things to him, but he doesn't know what she's saying, or at least doesn't remember afterwards, but at least she's not crying anymore.

And then it's night, and he's awake but can't figure out what woke him up. Someone is moving around in the narrow space between his bed and the curtain, but the light's off, so it probably isn't a nurse.

"Elizabeth?" he asks, his voice so weak and cracked that he barely recognizes it as his own.

There's a quick motion and someone puts a hand over his mouth and whispers "Shhh" next to his ear. 

Peter's first, panicked thought is _They came back to finish the job!_ He throws himself against his assailant, and that makes something in his chest give a sharp _ping_ of hot silvery pain, and he must have lost a little time again, because now he's lying still and the hand is gone and someone is whispering, very close to his face, "Don't do that, don't do that! Oh God, El is going to kill me. Peter? Say something."

It's dim in here, but not completely dark. He recognizes the face. And he'd know that voice anywhere. Maybe he's dreaming. Maybe he's dead. "Neal," he whispers.

Neal's smile is a quicksilver flash of pure delight. "Yes," he whispers back, and pulls away, but his hand lingers on Peter's arm, then slides down to grip Peter's hand.

Words are hard. Thinking is hard. "Where's El?"

"I sent her home to get some sleep." Neal reaches out of Peter's sight. There's the soft shirr of a chair being dragged stealthily across the floor, then Neal sits down, but his hand remains tightly clasped around Peter's. "Told her I'd sit with you for a while. At least, unless the staff figure out I'm not actually a doctor and kick me out of here."

Peter's eyes slip down to Neal's white lab coat, with a name tag reading STEVENSON, then back to Neal's face.

"Yeah, I know. There are only so many options for sneaking into the ICU, though."

"You know you're a fugitive, right?" Peter whispers. 

Neal's mouth quirks at the corner. "No, Peter, I had no idea. Is that what the Marshals and wanted posters are all about?"

There's more he wants to say. So much more. But the dark tide is dragging him under again.

"Go to sleep," Neal says softly. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

Neal has never lied to him. Peter closes his eyes.

 

***

 

When he wakes again, it's El's dark head on the side of his bed, fast asleep with her small fingers laced through his. Neal, unexpectedly, is there too, life-sized and real-looking. He's doing something to the IV beside Peter's bed. This time his name tag reads JEMISON.

"You are aware you don't actually have a medical degree, aren't you?" Peter says quietly, and Neal jumps and almost knocks the IV stand over, catching it smoothly with his usual catlike reflexes before it's traveled more than a few inches.

"Nurse walked in on me a minute ago." Neal flashes that brilliant smile again. "I had to look like I knew what I was doing. These things are actually really fascinating, did you ever look at one closely?"

Peter gives him a look of disbelief, as much as he can manage while flat on his back and largely unable to move. "It's keeping me hydrated. Get away from it."

Neal raises his hands and slides away innocently.

El mumbles and stirs. Peter strokes her hair, and she settles back into a deeper sleep. "I thought you were supposed to make her go home."

"That was two days ago," Neal says, looking a little worried.

"Oh." Peter feels terrible and achy, as if he has the flu. But at least he can think again, even if it's still fuzzy. His pain medication must be starting to wear off a bit. 

He looks at Neal again. Aside from being visibly tired, Neal looks pretty good -- well, Neal always looks good, but he's not any skinnier than usual, and he's more tanned than he used to be. _He's been in the sun,_ Peter thinks, and then clamps down hard on that line of thought. Plausible deniability is best for both of them right now. "You really are sneaking around the ICU pretending to be a doctor. I thought I dreamed that." When Neal doesn't deny it, Peter says, "Tell me you're not living in the hospital."

"Of course not. I'm staying at your place." Neal hesitates. "Come to think of it, you're probably not supposed to know that."

And El is aiding and abetting felons again. Well, it was a nice, law-abiding eight months while it lasted. "I never heard a thing." His voice is still weak and scratchy, and he can feel a cough coming on, but tries to fight it back; he has a feeling that coughing is going to hurt like hell. There are a million questions he has to struggle not to ask. "What are you doing here?" he asks instead. 

Neal's look around the ICU, and then back at Peter, is more eloquent than words.

"Okay, yes, that, obviously, but you know what I mean. How'd you know?"

"Oh," Neal says. He looks down at El, puddled and asleep on the edge of the bed. "Elizabeth got in touch with me."

"You left El a way to contact you?" Peter feels a little bit betrayed (all these months, and she never said anything?) and, at the same time, impressed to the point of delight with the sheer audacity of it. Of _course_ Neal left her a way to get in touch...

"No," Neal says. "I didn't. After you were shot, she got an interview with the local news media, about the heroic FBI agent who had been shot heroically while in heroic pursuit of a suspect and was now heroically hovering on the brink of death, and did I mention the heroic part? Then she made sure it went viral on every social network. This hospital must have good wireless."

"I will never be able to show my face at the office again," Peter groans. "Or on the street, for that matter."

"Oh, don't be like that. All your agents plus-one'd it. It's very cute. There's a little photo montage and everything."

Peter resolves not to think about it, because otherwise he's going to lapse into a coma from sheer humiliation. "And then you saw it and hopped the next plane to New York."

"Yes," Neal says, suddenly very serious.

"You shouldn't have."

"I shouldn't have jumped from one tram car to another over the East River, either, but that turned out okay."

And that makes Peter laugh, which hurts a little, and then it turns into the threatened cough, which hurts as much as he was afraid it was going to. This wakes El, and between the two of them, El and Neal get him settled back down and El holds a cup of water so that he can sip through a straw.

"You're not supposed to exert yourself," El says sternly. "Neal, stop making him laugh."

Of course, this makes him laugh again. "Ow. Damn it, Neal. I can't believe that somehow you've managed to turn visiting me in the hospital into another one of your crazy stunts."

"Surprised?" Neal says, and he's grinning, with the old devil-may-care sparkle in his eyes, and oh God, Peter missed this so much, missed _him_ so much.

"No," Peter says. "Not surprised at all."

 

***

 

He sleeps and wakes and sleeps again, and sometimes a nurse is there, and sometimes Elizabeth is there, and sometimes Neal. He doesn't want to ask how long Neal thinks he can get away with staying. He doesn't want to know.

 

***

 

He wakes to sun-drenched white walls and realizes something's changed. He turns his head to the side. Neal is perched on the edge of a chair, fastidiously nibbling on a cup of yogurt, while El is doing something to the curtains.

"Yes," Neal says, "you're out of the ICU. Which is making my life a lot easier, by the way. At least this room has a proper door and a bathroom to hide in. There was only so long I could keep pretending to be different doctors by swapping name tags."

"And it has a window," El says over her shoulder. "We got you a room on the lowest floor that we could, and made sure it had a window."

"You're not seriously planning to jump out the window?" Peter asks, and then starts coughing. It hurts less this time, which is like saying that being hit in the face with a hammer hurts less than being hit with a dozen hammers. El descends on him with a cup of ice water and pets his hair while he drinks. Normally he'd mind being fussed over. Right now he doesn't really.

"We're only three floors up," Neal says, as if that makes it perfectly reasonable. "You should try the yogurt. It's good for you."

"They say you can have soft foods now." El leans her cheek on top of his head.

"I'm taste-testing them for you," Neal adds.

Peter gives him a look of disbelief.

"What? I'm just making sure everything is fresh and wholesome."

"You've been spending too much time around Mozzie."

There's a sharp pang as he says it, and a flash across Neal's face, there and gone. This is a little too close to the things they emphatically aren't talking about.

"Mozzie says hi, by the way," Neal says after a moment. "He would have come too, but, uh --"

"Yeah. Things."

"Things," Neal agrees.

"And besides. Hospitals." 

Neal nods, and it's okay again, for the moment. Sort of.

 

***

 

When Peter wakes up again, Elizabeth _and_ Neal are gone, but Diana and Jones are there. They talk shop for a little while. The guy who shot him has already been arraigned, and Peter will need to testify as soon as he's strong enough. Jones tape-records a brief preliminary statement just in case the lawyers need it, "to keep them from bothering you."

"Hang on, I need to use the bathroom." Diana starts to rise.

Peter casts a quick glance in that direction and sees that the bathroom door is closed. Alarm bells go off in his head. "I think it's out of order," he says quickly. "Doesn't work. They were supposed to send someone up to fix it." He'd like to do that lying-without-technically-lying thing that Neal is so good at -- he hates lying directly to his team -- but he's too tired and loopy to think of anything good.

"Oh." Diana gives the bathroom a long, thoughtful look.

"We oughta get going anyway," Jones says, and makes what looks suspiciously like an aborted move to hug Peter, then pats him on his good shoulder instead.

"Christie knows some good physical therapists," Diana says. "Actually, have I given you her cell number? Just in case they treat you badly and you need to go over someone's head to complain." She scribbles on the little notepad from the bedside tray table, then squeezes his hand, pressing the folded piece of paper into his palm.

"Thanks for coming, you guys." It would be nice if he could, say, sit up without assistance, but he manages a little wave as they leave. Then he looks down at the sheet of paper.

There's a phone number, which probably is legitimately Christie's -- then a dividing slash under it, and a quick note: SAY HI FOR ME.

Peter sighs. And smiles.

Best. Team. Ever.

"Coast is clear," he says. "You can come out now."

There's a very long pause, then the door of the bathroom cracks open, and Neal slithers out, still in his white doctor coat.

"I'm getting very well acquainted with that bathroom. Maybe I should put some art on the walls. Give me something to look at."

"As long as it's not forged." 

"Nah, it wouldn't be a Caffrey anyway; all my paints are in --" Neal cuts off, hesitates, then continues. "Elsewhere." 

Peter looks up and sees that there's a wistful look on Neal's face. "Nice to hear their voices today, huh?" he says quietly.

"I wish I could ..." Neal shakes his head. "Yeah. Nice."

Peter glances down at the note in his hand. "Diana says hi, by the way."

Neal's eyes go a little wide.

"No, I didn't tell them. They're not stupid, you know."

"I know," Neal says.

"You should probably be clearing out." It hurts to say it, hurts more than a bullet in the chest, actually. But it's true. "The longer you stay here, the more danger you're in. And you can't always hide in the bathroom or go out the window."

"I haven't had to go out the window yet."

"First time for everything," Peter says. His eyes are drifting closed again. _Damn_ it; he hates being this weak, this easily exhausted.

Warm fingers touch his, and Peter opens his eyes again. Neal slides the piece of notepaper from Peter's fingers, and leaves his hand resting on top of Peter's. It's not a promise, exactly -- there's no way that Neal could promise not to leave, with things the way they are. But it's solid, and tangible, and Peter falls asleep with the pressure of Neal's fingers warm against his own.

 

***

 

When next he wakes, it's Elizabeth who wakes him, rustling around the room. "Oh, hon, I'm sorry." She kisses him briefly, her lips tasting of peach-flavored lip gloss.

"I've slept too much lately, anyway," he mumbles, and rubs his eyes, tries to sit up and gives up; he settles for raising the head of the bed a little. El hands him a cup of ice water with a straw, and then goes back to what she was doing: unpacking items from a duffle bag. 

"Is Neal ..." Peter begins, and then stops; he's not sure if he wants to know.

"He's at the house. Sleeping." El slides a handful of books out of the duffle and holds them up; it looks like she bought out the crossword shelf at the bookstore.

"El, you're the best." He's not sure if he has the brainpower for crosswords right now, but it's the thought that counts.

El smiles and unpacks a bathrobe. She peeks into the duffle, then zips it shut. "There are some more clothes in here, and I brought some toiletries and lotion, in case you want them. Oh, and ..." She looks a little embarrassed. "A rope ladder and grappling hook. But that's not for you."

"A _what_?" He follows the duffle with his eyes. It makes a clunk when El sets it down.

"It's for Neal. In case he has to go out the window."

"He's not going out the window." Or so Peter hopes. "Where on Earth did you get a rope ladder? Don't tell me we had it lying around the bedroom closet."

"No; you never heard this from me, but Neal told me where to find one of Mozzie's old caches. Don't worry, hon. It's just in case of emergencies."

"I did not just hear that."

"Nope." She lowers the rail on one side of the bed and sits down next to him. "Do you want something to eat? Also, the nurse said it would be good for you to move around a little bit today, if you feel up to it."

"Maybe later." He slides an arm around her hip, trailing an IV line. His arm is pale, the skin dry, and has visibly lost muscle mass since he's been lying around; it's hardly recognizable as his own. But El pulls it across her lap.

"Scootch over," she says, and makes a little place for herself on the edge of the bed, very gently fitting herself against him and nestling his head against the soft place between her neck and shoulder.

"Did you really contact Neal on Facebook?" Peter says into her clavicle.

El laughs. "Oh, honey, more than that. Your video went viral! It was reblogged everywhere."

"Please don't tell me this. I don't want to think about it."

She laughs again, silently, vibrating against him, and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"El ..." he says after a moment, speaking to her neck. "You know, as my spouse, you can't be compelled to testify against me --"

"Honey --" El says, sounding shocked.

"Hear me out. I'm just saying, if Neal were to leave you some way to get messages to him -- something a bit more direct and discreet than the entire Internet -- and you didn't tell me about it, then it would be as if it didn't exist, from my point of view. Certainly nothing that could be used against me."

"That's true," she agrees, her breath stirring his hair.

"Just something you might want to take up with Neal. That's all. Of course, you couldn't tell me if you did."

"I wouldn't say a word," she informs his hair.

"Good."

 

***

 

They're tapering off his meds and making him sit up more, which wears him out but also means he's gone from sleeping constantly to waking up a dozen times a night, itchy and uncomfortable and restless. El has gone home tonight, but Neal turns up instead, appearing in Peter's room between one catnap and the next. This time he's wearing scrubs, with a plastic cap over his hair and a surgical mask hanging around his neck. 

"They're starting to look at me twice," he says, to Peter's curious look. "A hospital is a nice, big, impersonal place to get lost in, but you can only do it for so long."

"Not to mention sneaking in and out of my backyard."

"I can neither confirm nor deny those allegations."

But an unspoken awareness hangs in the air between them: Neal is actively wanted, actively hunted, and El and Peter are exactly the people he _shouldn't_ be anywhere near. Not if he wants to stay safe. Free.

Peter wonders how he got from working his ass off to catch Neal, to working just as hard to make sure Neal doesn't get caught.

"I talked to El --" he begins, but Neal quickly holds up a finger.

"Plausible deniability," Neal says.

"Yeah. Just ..."

_Just drop a postcard every once in a while. No return address. No message even. Just something, anything, to let us know you're okay._

Because the thought has occurred to him -- he's been thinking about it a lot, actually -- that something like this could just as easily have happened to _Neal,_ and that he'd never know, that Neal could be lying in a hospital in Paris or Fiji or Buenos Aires or wherever he was, and Peter would just never _know_.

"I'd come," Peter says at last, because he doesn't know what else to say. "I'll always come."

_Just send a message. I don't care if you get it here by postcard, email, carrier pigeon or wagon train. Just send it._

"Peter," Neal says, and as always, he can make Peter's name into a whole conversation all by itself. His face is soft and sad and intensely, heartbreakingly fond. "Do you really think I don't know that?"

Neal goes quiet, then, as the brisk tap of a nurse's shoes passes the door. Peter feels like they're both grasping for straws now -- trying to make this last. And he finally seizes on something.

"Hey, Neal," he says, and Neal turns towards him. "Remember that night, a year and a half ago, when I gave you immunity ..."

"Like I could forget," Neal says, and his mouth twitches. "I've never seen you that hung over."

"You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"It was your suggestion in the first place," Neal points out innocently. "Self-inflicted, all the way."

"Well, I have another suggestion," Peter says, and Neal is quiet, intent: listening with body and soul. It's one of his talents as a con artist, the ability to listen with everything in him, and remember what he hears. "I don't have a badge right now," Peter says. "I'm on medical leave. And you promised to tell me about E. Parker."

"When this is over," Neal murmurs, quoting himself.

"I know it's not over yet, not really." Peter glances at the window, at the city lights outside. "But it's a long way until dawn. And I've got nothing better to do."

Neal hesitates, then pulls a chair over. "Am I going to be risking your health if I keep you up all night?"

"If I get tired," Peter says, "I'll just fall asleep." He waves a hand to indicate the pillow. "I've got my bed right here."

Neal grins. "No beer this time. Or three-dollar, screw-top wine."

"Oh, come on, it cost more than that."

"Fine. Four-dollar wine."

"And screw tops are convenient," Peter points out.

"Are you going to let me talk, or do both sides of the conversation yourself? Because that would be really entertaining, but not very enlightening for you."

Peter rolls his eyes, and raises a hand, trailing IV lines, to mime zipping his lip. As he lowers his hand, Neal catches it, careful of the IV; their hands go back down to the blanket together, and Neal curls his fingers around Peter's wrist.

Neal has never been, to say the least, a handholding sort of person. Thank God. But perhaps it serves the same function for him right now as it does for Peter. _I'm here,_ it says. _I'm real. We're in this together. Again. Still._

Neal is silent for a long time, light fingers resting just above Peter's pulse point. Finally, he begins to speak.

"When I was in my teens, I went into the Witness Protection Program ..."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Circuit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/555944) by [Sholio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio)




End file.
